


Day 7: Plaything

by MindfulWrath



Series: The Week of Terrible Fiction [7]
Category: The Yogscast
Genre: Knifeplay, M/M, Mind Control, Necrophilia, Self Harm, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-27
Updated: 2016-03-27
Packaged: 2018-05-29 09:47:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6369952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MindfulWrath/pseuds/MindfulWrath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To finish things off, we return to the most Terrible 'verse of all: <em>Sanguimancer.</em></p>
<p>This is nearly how it went, but I decided I wanted Parvis to be ... not quite this irredeemable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Day 7: Plaything

The first time Parvis caved, it was horrible.

He was holding Strife in his lap, keeping him warm in the chill darkness of his cell. In a moment of inattention, he'd started to fall asleep, his head tipping back against the stone wall. Strife kissed his neck, and Parvis started awake, intending to push him away—but then Strife kissed him again and warmth flooded through Parvis, nearly as good as the magic, and he sighed and tangled a hand in Strife's hair.

There was no _harm_ in it, surely? In just letting him do this, letting him kiss however and wherever he wanted? He was doing it of his own accord, even—Parvis hadn't asked him, hadn't told him, no one had commanded him or coerced him. This was just something that Strife _did,_ and from the way he did it, surely he must have been enjoying it. Parvis leaned his head back against the wall, and Strife kissed up under his jaw, his lips warm, his breath coming short. Every touch lit another flame under Parvis's skin, dripping hot wax into his core. He put his other hand on Strife's bare hip and fidgeted.

At the touch, Strife pushed his hips forward, grinding against Parvis, his movements easy and sure, and Parvis couldn't stop himself from moaning. How many times had he _dreamed_ of this, dreamed of having Strife all to himself, dreamed of Strife adoring him like this, worshiping him with his mouth and hands?

"Strife," he whispered, lifting his hips a fraction, matching Strife's movements. He arched his back and pressed their bodies together, the heat of kisses on his neck leaving his mind fuzzy and soft.

It wasn't as though he _made_ Strife do anything—if his hand had pulled down just a little, if some twitch of his arm had tugged on Strife's hair, encouraged him to kiss his way along Parvis's collarbones, his chest, that was an accident, and Strife didn't _have_ to comply, didn't have to make those lovely little moans in the back of his throat, didn't have to unfasten Parvis's trousers with his cold and clumsy fingers. And if Parvis had taken his head in both hands and guided him down to his cock, that was only helpful, wasn't it? Strife was headed that way anyways, and he was half-hard, too, and he was just so _willing,_ and it was so easy—Parvis couldn't be doing anything _wrong,_ when it was so clear that Strife wanted it.

Strife fumbled Parvis's cock out of his trousers and wrapped his lips around the head, and Parvis moaned, just barely resisting the impulse to buck his hips up, to force Strife to take him faster. It wasn't long before he was fully hard, with Strife mouthing at him like that, soft lips and lazy tongue, but Strife made no move to take him in, and so Parvis was forced to encourage him a little further.

He put a hand on the back of Strife's head and pulled him in, raising his hips, pushing himself into the wet heat of Strife's mouth, going as slow and careful as he could manage. Strife's breath was hot on his shaft, his tongue idly tasting the flesh, and the feeling of it filled Parvis up with molten steel, glowing in his veins. He moaned and dropped his hips, because Strife wasn't pulling back, was just staying where he'd been placed, his eyes half-closed and his jaw slack, and it was _unbearable._

Keeping one hand on the back of Strife's head, Parvis grabbed the heavy iron collar in the other, pulling Strife back by it. Strife slid up along Parvis's cock, his tongue trailing, his lips twitching; Parvis pushed him back down, and Strife _finally_ seemed to get the message, put his tongue to work and hollowed out his cheeks, although Parvis had to keep pushing and pulling him. His breath came short, his hips rose and fell as he fucked Strife's mouth, his eyes closed, a fire in his belly.

"Oh, God, Strife, yeah," he moaned, pushing into the other man's throat, feeling him gag and tighten around him. He bucked his hips in little thrusts, staying deep, reveling in the tightness of Strife's throat. Strife's hands tightened on his legs, his breath stopped by the cock in his throat, but Parvis kept fucking him until he started to writhe, until he tried to pull away. Parvis let him, and the way Strife gasped and moaned was exquisite. Parvis yanked on the chain around his neck and pulled him back to wrap his lips around the head of his cock, let him run his tongue over the slit. The fire in his belly was roaring, the molten metal in his veins racing with the beat of his heart, and he gave up trying to be kind or subtle or gentle. He held Strife by the hair and by his collar and thrust his hips, sharply and rapidly, fucking the unresisting mouth until slobber ran down his shaft and tears trailed down Strife's cheeks, until with a drawn-out groan he came on Strife's tongue. Strife swallowed without being told, his tongue rolling along Parvis's shaft, and Parvis shuddered at the pure, simple intimacy of it.

As he came down, one drifting thought at a time, Strife's mouth still warm around him, the reality of what he'd done poured down over him, heavy as an ocean and just as relentless.

Strife had not wanted this. Strife had been _trained,_ and Parvis had taken advantage of him.

Guilty and sick, he let Strife curl up in his lap again and tried to ignore how hard Strife was, even now.

He would be doing him no favors if he forced him to get off on being raped.

* * *

 

The second time Parvis caved, it was glorious.

The magic was thick and buzzing in his veins, hot and vibrant and _hungry,_ and since Rythian was still working, it was up to Parvis to find his own entertainment.

It didn't help that Rythian had bent him over the altar and fucked him first, leaving him hollow and aching for resolution, teeth marks in his neck and a cock so hard it felt like it was going to burst.

Parvis staggered down the hall to Strife's room, barely able to keep his feet, the sacrificial dagger clenched in his hand. His mind was fuzzy, his vision fogged, but he saw the way Strife struggled to get upright when he came in, saw how hard it was for him to get off the floor.

He saved him the trouble and pinned him down, straddling him. He made the first cut without thinking, a deep gouge in Strife's shoulder, and because of the runes littering the underground caverns, the blood was swallowed by the thirsty altar the moment it left the wound, sending a wave of pleasure rolling through Parvis. Strife cried out and Parvis kissed him, swallowing the sound, putting a hand on Strife's chest to keep him from wriggling so much. It was nice when he did it with his hips, but it made the rest of him ever so hard to cut.

Parvis kissed messily, too lost in the sensation to care that he was smearing spit on Strife's lips and chin, to care that the way he was pushing his tongue into Strife's mouth and licking and suckling was not reciprocated, to care that Strife had wrapped both his hand around Parvis's wrist and was trying to push the knife away. Parvis cut him again, just under the first, and again Strife cried out, and again Parvis swallowed the sound. Strife bucked his hips up and set off a volley of fireworks in Parvis's stomach, and he was already so achingly hard and so full of heat that he didn't even stop to consider why it had happened. The hand not holding the knife undid his trousers, and then he grabbed Strife's hips and yanked them up, trying to fumble his way to Strife's hole. Strife had gone limp, and was not making the process any easier. Parvis cut him again, and Strife twitched, and another wash of ecstasy rolled through Parvis.

He flipped Strife over and took his hips in both hands, the knife pressed against bone. He forced one finger into Strife's hole, delighted by the way he writhed. He drew a long cut down his back with the dagger and listened to him squeal. He was so hard he was going to _die,_ wanted Strife so badly he couldn't be bothered with any more foreplay, and so he forced himself into him, one agonizing inch at a time, feeling Strife tear around him, so tight it hurt Parvis—but the pain was glorious, and Parvis kept cutting him because every drop of blood was another sweet taste of euphoria, and it numbed the pain enough that he could force his way all the way in, smearing his cock with Strife's blood, moaning at the heat and the tightness and the way Strife twitched and writhed. He wasted no time in fucking him, as hard as he could, drawing sharp red lines with the tip of the dagger, carving into Strife's back because it made the pleasure unbearable.

Strife screamed, and then whimpered, and then moaned as Parvis took him, hard and raw and bloody. Parvis wrapped Strife's chain around his hand and hauled him upright, bit his neck and pumped his cock, blood soaking into his shirt, magic filling his veins with its incredible heat. He found Strife's prostate and hammered into it, delighted by the way Strife screamed, never once slowing down, never once pausing until Strife was coming into his hand, trembling and breathless, tightening around him. Parvis cursed under his breath and shoved Strife back down, back to where he could get deep inside him, and kept at him. He thrust hard and deep, pulling almost all the way out at each one, moaning and cursing and pleading as the heat in his belly and his veins built higher and higher until his insides caught fire and all the frantic energy roared out of him as he came in Strife, and he plunged the knife into Strife's back to feel him twitch and scream, to feel the unbearable rush of the magic pick him up and sweep him away like a wave on the ocean.

After he pulled out, he licked the wounds on Strife's back, the taste of blood sharp and enticing. He let his tongue wander inside the hole he'd made. Strife writhed and whimpered and tried to claw at Parvis's head, but he couldn't reach, and it just felt so _good_ to be inside him, to taste the flesh and the blood of him, with the rush of the magic lighting his veins and the afterglow of sex warming his skin. Blood soaked his face, and he could feel the altar tugging at it, trying to drink it up and pour its power back into Parvis. He smiled to himself and turned Strife over and kissed him, smearing his own blood over his face.

Eventually he had Strife lick it off him, because the feeling of his tongue was too good to be denied.

* * *

 

The third time Parvis caved, it was easy.

Strife never moved much anymore, unless Parvis moved him. He never ate unless Parvis fed him—and Parvis did feed him, and bathed him, and brushed his hair and cleaned his wounds. With all that he did for Strife, it was only fair that he be awarded a little recompense every once in a while, especially now that Rythian was so busy with his magic. Strife did, after all, _belong_ to Parvis—to Parvis, and to the magic, because all of them belonged to the magic.

As Strife lay in Parvis's arms, his breathing slow and shallow, his eyes closed, Parvis took his chin in his hands and tipped his head up, kissing him gently, tenderly.

"You love me, Strifey," he murmured, "don't you?"

Strife said nothing, but he kissed Parvis again, falling into him as though he was meant to be there. Parvis stroked his cheek and petted his hair, ran his fingers over the cold blisters the collar had left around Strife's neck. There were so many wounds on Strife's body now, it was hard to find a space without one. Parvis didn't mind. They were lovely little things, most of them his—marking Strife as his own, each one a little testament to how Strife _loved_ him, adored him, worshipped him. Parvis touched the wounds, ran his fingers over them. There had been a time when that would have made Strife shiver, would have made him squirm, but no longer. He belonged to Parvis, and these little touches were just one part of that. He liked them, Parvis knew, liked it when Parvis was gentle with him. He never said so, but he turned to putty under any gentle touch, and it was easy to see how much he liked it when he was always naked.

Parvis laid him down and draped himself over him, still kissing him, still running his fingers over Strife's body. He'd bathed him that morning, though Strife hadn't been able to keep his eyes open, hadn't been able to stay conscious. Not long after Parvis laid him down, he stopped kissing back, and his hands went limp, and his breathing got even slower. Parvis kissed his neck to feel his weak pulse under his lips.

It was so easy when he was unconscious like this—no screaming, no thrashing, no clawing with weak fingers at Parvis's hands and face. Sometimes, of course, the violence was good, was better than anything else in the world. But now, Parvis wanted something tender, wanted to show Strife that he didn't just _want_ him, he _loved_ him, loved him with all his heart, loved the way he kissed and moaned and felt, loved the softness of his hair and the scars on his skin, loved the curve of his jaw and the paleness of his lips. Parvis kissed him, touching every part of him, running hands and fingers over scars and skin, and Strife lay still. Parvis kissed him under the jaw and caressed his chest, insinuating himself between Strife's legs, rolling their hips together. Parvis still had his trousers on, but the friction was good nonetheless, the warmth of Strife's body easy to feel through the thin fabric.

"Poor, sleepy Strifey," he murmured. He undid the buckle of his belt, the button and zipper of his trousers. "But I love you so. Do you love me, Strifey? I know you do. I won't wake you. Poor, poor sleepy Strifey."

He kissed down Strife's chest, his belly. He mouthed at his cock, suckling at it though it was limp, until his jaw started to get sore and his own cock started to ache. He kissed his way back up to Strife's mouth, tasting his tongue and teeth.

"Your turn," he murmured, and crawled up to sit on Strife's chest, taking his head in his hands. He left Strife's mouth hanging open, lips that had been pushed apart by his tongue, and slid his cock inside. He moaned, moving Strife's head back and forth along his length, reveling in how easy it was, how pliable and cooperative Strife was when he was unconscious, even if he couldn't put his tongue to work. It was enough to push into his throat, to fuck him in narrow thrusts that kept him deep in the soft tissue—easy to stay there, now that Strife wasn't writhing, wasn't trying to pull away.

And Parvis had been so kind to him, had taken such good care of him—he deserved a reward, didn't he? So he fucked Strife's throat, long and slow and easy, his hands tangled in Strife's brittle hair and his head tipped back, until the slow fire in his veins swelled and burst like a blooming flower and he came in Strife's throat with a gasp.

Strife did not swallow, but that was all right. Parvis's seed ran down his throat anyway, unimpeded, unheeded. Slowly, Parvis pulled out of Strife and went back to kissing him. Strife still did not wake up, but that was all right. He'd been so good, he deserved to sleep a little longer, and Parvis was happy to let him.

It must have been easy to sleep, with someone who loved him so.

* * *

 

The fourth time Parvis caved, it was love.

He'd washed Strife, brushed his hair, shaved his stubble and tried to feed him. Strife hadn't been hungry, but it was all right; at least Parvis had tried. Strife didn't eat much these days anyway. Parvis didn't mind; he was still just as sweet, just as compliant and loving.

Parvis lay in their bed, the dingy little mattress in the cell, cradling Strife in his arms. He'd been cold when Parvis had come down, but Parvis was warming him up slowly, holding him close, running his hands over the scarred flesh. Strife was so often cold, Parvis had gotten good at warming him up again. It took a little time and patience, but Parvis was always so hot with the fire of the magic that it was no trouble at all to share some of that warmth with Strife.

"You're so lovely, Strifey," he murmured, running a thumb along Strife's pale cheek. Strife did not reply, his eyes closed, his lips parted. Parvis kissed him, lingering and loving. He pulled Strife closer, ran a hand down his back. Sometimes he missed how Strife used to shiver, used to draw closer of his own accord, but everything came at a price, he supposed. It was so easy to get on with Strife now—no fighting, no bitter words or angry glares, no screaming or thrashing or weeping.

It was so clear that Strife loved him, it made Parvis's heart swell with joy.

"I love you," Parvis murmured, kissing his way along Strife's jaw, down his neck, cold and smooth as marble. Carefully, he rolled Strife onto his back and lay atop him, teasing his throat with his teeth, caressing his thighs.

Strife did nothing, and Parvis sighed, though not in frustration.

"You're so good to me, baby," Parvis said, lifting one of Strife's legs to rest it against his own waist. He undid his trousers and pulled them off—only fair that they were both naked, especially when Strife was so cold. Any warmth Parvis could impart was worth it. He found Strife's entrance and pressed a finger in, then two. Strife was relaxed, pliable and easy to stretch. Parvis took him slowly, tenderly, shivering at how _cold_ he was around him, how tight despite that. It was easier to fuck him, these days, and took a lot less preparation.

"You're so good," Parvis repeated in a whisper, rolling their hips together, relaxing as Strife warmed up around him, the banked fire in his stomach waking again. He kissed Strife as they fucked, keeping it slow and gentle, hands on Strife's legs to keep them against his own waist. It was so _good,_ so loving and tender, the way Strife would let him do this any time, any time he wanted—how he would lie still and sleepy, how he would warm under Parvis's hands, how he was always relaxed and ready.

Parvis kissed him until he came, a slow wave of heat that rolled out through him, simple pleasures for a simple life. He kept kissing Strife afterwards, because his lips were warm even if his mouth was dry, and he stayed deep inside him while his cock softened, because he loved Strife and every moment they spent together was beautiful.

It was only a shame how he didn't bleed anymore.


End file.
